


autumn's flourish, fruit that falls for you

by norvegiae



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Domesticity, First Kiss, Fluff, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27541411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvegiae/pseuds/norvegiae
Summary: There had been lime juice and rich broths and hot sweet tea to spare, once James Clark Ross had found the ragged remains of Franklin’s men, and it had been enough to bring James back from the brink – to bring them all back – but he is far from the picture of health he had made in his halcyon days.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 28
Kudos: 100
Collections: Fall Fitzier Exchange





	autumn's flourish, fruit that falls for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wildcard_47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/gifts).



James sleeps like the dead.

He is not dead, however, and Francis knows this. He knows this because he finds he cannot sleep, and instead stares intently through the dim light of this cramped cabin; he stares at the steady rise and fall of James’ chest and confirms to himself that James is yet living.

Oh, but it had been a close thing.

Through the open collar of his shirt, Francis can see his collarbones in sharp relief, shadows harsh and unforgiving in the flickering lantern light.

There had been lime juice and rich broths and hot sweet tea to spare, once James Clark Ross had found the ragged remains of Franklin’s men, and it had been enough to bring James back from the brink – to bring them all back – but he is far from the picture of health he had made in his halcyon days. 

Now, as _Enterprise_ makes its way back to the open waters of the Atlantic, colour has not yet returned to James’ face, beyond his bruised eyelids and his dry, bloodied lips. His scars have not yet healed over again, and still seep into the rough fabric of this borrowed nightshirt. He is not likely to die now, but there is still so far to go, and Francis, weak and exhausted and yet inexplicably awake, feels almost sick with worry.

He cannot sleep, and he worries about James.

He cannot sleep, and he worries about his men, both the living and the dead, the souls he saved and the ones he lost.

He cannot sleep, and he worries about London, about what is left there for him, about what is left of him that he can bring to London.

His mind wanders, trying to picture the streets he would frequent in his idle hours. He thinks of coffee-houses, theatres, public gardens. He thinks of Kensington Palace, strangely – what kind of world is he returning to, that he might come across a palace in his wanderings?

The thought of London and her boisterous, roiling society floods him with a chill of unease. It seems to Francis like a world he has outgrown, into which he will no longer fit. What good can he do there? What need does London have of a disgraced captain, a failed explorer? Perhaps, he thinks as he wills sleep to descend upon him, he should have been left on that barren island. Better that than return to England and be of no use to anybody.

In the other cot, wedged alongside his own in the narrow cabin, James shifts in his sleep. Francis hears the rustle of sheets, and a deep, dreaming sigh.

“I don’t know how I shall part with you,” James murmurs on the dock at Greenhithe, pale and drawn and leaning heavily on a cane. He is bound for Brighton, to recuperate by the sea with his brother. Francis is bound for the guest bedroom of Ross and his lady wife. “I find I’ve rather grown accustomed to having you at my side.”

“The sea air will do you good,” Francis says, though his heart aches in a way he has not recently felt. “And you will be glad that you don’t have to share a cabin with me anymore.”

James only smiles, a weak, strained thing which stretches over his gaunt features.

“I shall miss you,” Francis goes on, not sure what he means to say and not sure what he is feeling, only sure that he needs to say it in any case. “I shall think of you, and wait for the day that you come back to London.”

“Truly?” James asks, glancing around them as if Francis has just admitted something devastating. There is no one around to hear them, though, busy with getting reacquainted with solid ground, busy with reunions, already setting off on the journey home.

“Truly,” Francis says, wishing they were still in the relative privacy of their cabin, that he might take James’ hand and press it, hold it against his chest. “And when you do come back to London, I thought we might – might take up rooms together.”

James blinks, tilts his head slightly. “In what manner?”

“In any manner you desire.” Francis must touch him now, reaches out to clasp him above the elbow. A perfectly professional gesture, were anyone to see it. “I don’t want us to be parted, James, not if I can help it.”

There is silence for a moment, long enough for Francis to regret ever opening his mouth, but finally James laughs a little, the sound rasping and laboured, and he must clear his throat before he can speak.

“It’s just as well. I don’t wish for us to be parted either.”

Since then, since James’ return to London, it has been easy – easy to take up rooms and falling into a strange domestic routine that Francis never could have imagined in his wildest daydreams.

Despite his nightmares, and the shadows flickering across his bedroom ceiling, which suddenly fill him with the strangest kind of worry, every day Francis wakes and feels stronger, more resilient, more like himself. He finds himself settling into long abandoned routines – breakfast and The Times, correspondence with friends, catching up on the newest publications from the Royal Society. He walks around the park – whichever park takes his fancy – he visits the Rosses at Blackheath, he visits Greenwich to watch the shifting tides of the Thames. He thinks that if he stares at the murky water long enough, he can almost see _Terror_ there, as resplendent and gleaming as she had been on that bright May morning in '45.

His own dear _Terror_ , his only home for so many years – all the places he had taken her, and she had cared for him, housed him, kept him warm. He had repaid her by leaving her there to freeze and shatter and sink under an empty Arctic sky.

He stares at the empty expanse of the river in front of him, and suddenly thinks of James. He turns his back on the water and heads for home.

He is met by the housemaid, Elsie, almost as soon as he is through the door. She takes from him his hat and coat, to be hung up out of sight in the back hall.

She is a hard worker, and Francis is very glad to have her around. She is perhaps prone to panic at times, prone to making mountains out of the odd trifling molehill, but still serious and diligent. There is also Mrs Taylor, who comes in the mornings and the afternoons to cook meals and check that nothing has burned down in her absence. Both are deeply valued by two retired naval officers who haven't a clue how to run a house or live a settled life, really, not a clue at all.

“I'm glad you're back, sir,” Elsie says in a conspiratorial whisper. “Captain Fitzjames is still abed, and he asks for tea, but he won't eat a thing, no matter how I might urge him to, and he doesn't seem to want to get up at all. Do you think he might be ill again? Do you think we ought to fetch the doctor?”

“I wouldn't worry,” Francis says, though he cannot help the sinking feeling of disappointment at this news. It has been this way for a few days - James has hardly seen the need to get out of bed at all, leaving Francis to sit alone downstairs with his worries. He had so hoped to come home today and find James up and out of bed doing, well, anything at all. “I'll look in and see how he is. Don't worry yourself,” he says again, hoping his own concern is not so clear on his face.

Elsie's mouth twists with uncertainty, but she nods and bobs a curtsey, disappearing into the back part of the house.

Francis sighs, idly unbuttoning his waistcoat as he mounts the stairs. On the first floor, he passes his own bedroom, where he would normally stop to remove his boots and retrieve his slippers and his housecoat, instead crossing the hall to rap on James' door briskly.

“Come in,” is James' flat response. He is awake, at least, awake and conscious and not in the scurvy-induced haze which so frequently claims him in Francis' nightmares.

His room is mostly dark – the curtains half drawn to let a sliver of grey afternoon light filter into the room. The fire is not lit, but the air in the room is still and stuffy enough not to warrant it. Doubtless James is warm enough under his many blankets, anyway.

He sits up slightly when Francis comes in, propped up on his elbows, but when he sees who it is, he lets himself flop back against the pillows again. “Good morning,” he says softly, dully, as if the words are a great effort.

“Good _afternoon_ ,” Francis says, closing the door behind him and stepping a little closer. “It is nearly one o'clock.”

“Oh dear,” James says, though he hardly sounds concerned.

“Will you not get up?” Francis asks, crossing to the window to fully part the curtains and open the window, so that a cold stream of fresh air might seep in. He turns to James then, who meets his gaze with a tired expression, tinged with something suggesting guilt.

“I don't think I'm up to it,” he says softly, his fingers playing with the trim edge of a heavy knitted blanket – a present from his sister-in-law. “Not unwell,” he adds, as if pre-empting what Francis is about to say. “Just – just tired. I can do nothing but _wake_ and I feel worn out. Bloody useless.” He throws an arm across his face, lets out a deep sigh. “There comes a point where it's not worth getting up at all.”

Francis shifts his weight on his feet awkwardly. James may be back to health in the most robust sense of the word, but his energy, his appetite, his mood – these are far from recovered. There is guilt as well, and Francis knows this because it afflicts him too. Guilt at yet living, while so many better men suffered and died and remain on the ice. Guilt at frittering away their days, as if the sacrifice of those men was for naught. How is it fair that they should be able to enjoy this settled life? It is not fair that they are living at all.

Francis longs to close the distance between them, to stroke James' hair back from his face and hold his hand and gently kiss his palm and tell him all manner of sweet, comforting things – but he has no knack for it.

What's more, he thinks – he does not know if James would want it. Perhaps he is happy like this, as they are, living in this platonic companionship. Perhaps this is all he wants. They have not discussed it, and instead the unspoken nature of it hangs in the air between them like gossamer.

Or perhaps, that cruel part of Francis' brain wonders, perhaps he wanted more, once, but the reality of living with a disgraced Irish sea captain, dull and dour as he is, has pushed him back in the other direction. Perhaps he regrets taking up rooms together at all, and longs to be back in Brighton with his family.

No, Francis cannot approach him as he longs to, but he wishes he had the courage to take a few steps forwards and do something, _anything_ , to brighten James' mood.

“Come and take luncheon with me,” he finally says. “Mrs Taylor has gone out, but I'm sure Elsie can dig out some bread and cheese. Maybe there's still some ham from the other night.”

This doesn't seem to stir James – he hadn't touched the ham the other night, either.

He shrugs, shifting to lie on his side, gazing out of the window blankly. “You go. But send her up with some tea, will you?”

Francis finds he can only nod, and leaves James alone in his room, closing the door on his little hermitage.

James comes down for dinner, though he only manages half a bowl of carrot soup and declines anything else.

“Aren't you hungry?” Francis asks, turning his fork over and over in his hand as he watches James – still gaunt, still pale, still moving stiffly as if his frozen joints have not yet thawed. There is something catlike about the way he moves; careful, considered, as if it is taking all his energy and concentration to sit quietly in a chair, his elbows tucked into his sides with his hands clenched together on the table.

James shrugs his shoulders absently. “I feel quite well,” he replies, and he leans back in his seat and stares out of the window as Francis finishes his own meal with a dwindling enthusiasm.

They sit in the drawing room afterwards, the fire casting out golden light and long shadows. James reads, and Francis thinks about smoking his pipe.

“Mrs Taylor came to speak to me this afternoon,” he says, once he realises that the effort of going upstairs to retrieve his pipe is far beyond him, warm as he is by the fire.

James looks at him over the top of a well-worn Currer Bell volume, folds the corner of the page to mark his place and snaps the book shut. “Oh yes?”

“She has had a letter from her sister in Thirsk who has apparently been taken ill, and there is no one there to care for her properly.”

“Has she no husband?” James asks, stretching his foot out across the floor to neaten up the folded corner of the rug.

“Aye, but busy on the farm, and with six children to care for besides.”

James hums, a careful noise of consideration. “Seems she must go and look after her sister, then.”

“'Twas what I said – she should go at once, and take as long as she needs.”

“And who will cook our meals?”

“Elsie can manage, I imagine.” James makes no response to this, staring blankly into the fire, and Francis suddenly has the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake some life into him. “Perhaps I could give it a go.”

At this, _finally_ , James looks up at him again with something akin to interest in his eyes.

“You? And what do you know about it?”

Despite this less than encouraging reply, Francis finds himself smiling. “I have made furthest south, you know. I am sure I can manage to make you dinner.”

James doesn't smile back, but there's a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “If you insist. We may make a _cuisinier_ of you yet.” He stretches his legs out before him, and then slowly gets up from his chair. “I'm going up to bed,” he says, approaching Francis' armchair and laying his hand on his shoulder. He runs his thumb along the line of Francis' crisp collar, and then the hand is gone.

“Goodnight,” Francis calls after him, and sits quietly to listen to the creak of the staircase as James makes his steady ascent.

The next morning, Francis knocks briskly on James' door, and when a bleary voice admits him entry, he draws the curtains to flood the room with morning light, which makes James groan.

“Do you fancy a walk today?” Francis asks, looking out at the rooftops and smoking chimneys of their particular corner of London. He does not look at James, for fear that the sight of him bundled up warm under the sheets will make him want to clamber up onto the bed to join him. He thinks they could probably spend a whole day like that, in a cocoon of warmth and comfort – a luxury beyond measure, after so long in the Arctic – if James would permit it. “We could go up to Hampstead Heath. How about it?”

“Perhaps,” James says, which Francis takes to be an encouraging answer until he adds, “perhaps another day.”

Francis spares a glance to James' elegant walking stick, propped up against the wall by the door. It has not been in use for a while. There has been no need, given that Francis cannot remember the last time James left the house. He had thought James might be intrigued by the Heath – to look down on London and see how its skyline has changed in their absence. It might help them feel like explorers again, with so many new discoveries to be made.

“Are you coming down for breakfast?”

Silence for a moment, and then, “Not today.”

Francis holds back a sigh. “You should eat,” he says. “The doctor said you must, for your strength.”

“My strength is fine,” James says, and when Francis hears a rustling of the sheets, he turns to see that James has rolled over in bed, now facing away from him, the blankets pulled up high around his ears. “I’m just not hungry. I’m sorry for being such a nuisance.”

“You are not a nuisance,” Francis says earnestly, wishing more than anything that James would just _look_ at him. “I worry for you.”

James does not reply, and Francis leaves the room, defeated.

**EGGS, Poached.**

> _Mode. –_ Eggs for poaching should be perfectly fresh, but not quite new-laid ; those that are about 36 hours old are the best for the purpose.

Having wandered down the stairs in a troubled daze, Francis finds himself standing in the kitchen, feeling not entirely at ease. James may not want to eat but Francis certainly does, and with his housekeeper now up in the North, he must take matters into his own hands. The fire in the stove is lit, and he can hear the clink of cutlery and china as Elsie sets the table for breakfast in the dining room.

Francis dithers, wondering what exactly it is that he plans to do here. It is not as if he has never cooked for himself before – but it has been a very, very long time, and he never managed anything particularly complicated even then. He feels a little ashamed of this, when faced with the reality of an absent cook – but this is how it is done in this country, in houses like this, when one has societal expectations to meet and years of backdated double pay to live off.

He remembers spending time in the kitchen as a boy, when he was still at home – getting under Cook's feet as she baked soda bread and apple cake and perhaps the occasional Charlotte russe, for this birthday or that. He was her favourite, he vaguely recalls – his older siblings shooed away again, his younger siblings still up in the nursery, and Francis, the only one allowed to sit at the kitchen table while Cook worked, getting flour on the trousers of his skeleton suit, getting flour in his hair, being fed the odd slice of a cooking apple – so tart it made him screw up his face in surprise. That always made Cook laugh.

He remembers saying goodbye to her when he left home for the Navy. He had felt like a man, dressed up in his smart uniform, though he had only been a boy of twelve – he doesn't know how he managed to convince himself that he was anything else. He remembers how she had tears in her eyes, remembers how he had hugged her tightly, and with all the confidence of youth had told her that she wasn't to worry about him, that he would be just fine.

And he _was_ fine, more or less, and now he finds himself thinking about her again, a lifetime later, standing in the basement kitchen of a house behind Regent's Park.

He feels strangely wary, as if he is an AB out of bounds on the quarterdeck, as if someone is about to appear and chase him out again.

Elsie does appear in the doorway at that moment, and they both get a fright.

“You startled me, Captain,” she says, readjusting her grip on the folded tablecloths in her arms. “You needn't trouble yourself with the cooking, sir. I'm sure I can manage while Mrs Taylor is away.”

“Oh, I'm sure you can–” Francis starts, embarrassment washing over him; he is a fool, out of his depth. “I just thought I might lend a hand. It feels silly making you sit around all day, waiting for us to eat.”

Elsie casts him a sceptical look – as well she should, really – but eventually she nods. “Well, sir, if you're sure. Do let me know if you need any help.”

She bustles into the servants' sitting room which abuts the kitchen, and Francis turns to assess the pantry and its contents. The fire in the stove has already been lit, and Elsie has clearly already taken in the bread delivery, as the loaf of bread sitting on the sideboard is so fresh that it is almost steaming still, and the smell of it makes Francis feel weak at the knees.

He wonders if the aroma has drifted along the corridors and up the stairs yet, through the floorboards to reach James' room.

He thinks, then, that it might be easier for James to eat if breakfast is brought to him, rather than the other way around – and Francis supposes he could make a breakfast edible enough for James. He might even enjoy it.

James’ health depends on it, after all – James’ health, his wellbeing, his happiness. And Francis values these things above all else, because he loves James Fitzjames.

And he thinks James loves him too, and that is how they have found themselves in this house together.

They love each other, perhaps, in an unformed sort of way. It is as yet unspoken, shapeless, held together by lingering touches and silent, meaningful looks. Francis does not know James’ desires, nor his expectations. He knows his own, certainly, but will keep them contained until James gives him the word. Until James is fully reacquainted with his health, all those desired kisses and embraces and sweet words murmured in the dead of night remain quite out of reach.

Making breakfast, however, is something Francis can do for James. Something of substance, something useful – oh, how Francis longs to be useful! He wants to see colour back in James’ cheeks and, above all, know that he was the one to put it there.

Yes, this is what he will do. He will keep James warm – he will keep James fed. It is love that drives him to this, as real as any other type of love – and Francis _does_ love him, in a dizzy and confusing way that threatens to overbalance him sometimes, as if love is something heavy and viscous, something that has filled him up and sloshes around inside him. He sometimes thinks that if he turns a corner too sharply, his love for James Fitzjames might send him careening to the floor.

James is bemused, to say the least, when Francis appears in the doorway of his bedroom, bearing a tray loaded down with a plate and two cups of tea, full to the brim.

“What's all this?”

“Breakfast,” Francis replies, slightly out of breath from the strenuous effort of climbing the stairs without spilling scalding hot tea all over himself.

“Well, yes,” James says with a raised eyebrow. “I mean, why aren't you eating downstairs?”

“This is for you,” Francis says, and steels himself for an argument as James' eyebrows pinch together, and his mouth falls open.

“Francis,” he begins, “I said I didn't want any, really–”

“It'll do you good,” Francis says firmly. “It's nothing dreadful. I made it myself.”

James sighs, and his head lolls back against the headboard with a quiet thud. “I suppose there's no getting out of this, is there.”

“I'm afraid not.”

With a puff of breath, James reaches out with his hands slightly, and Francis moves forward to gently lay the tray across his lap, and once it is settled, he plucks up one of the teacups, cradling it in his hands.

“I say,” James says as he surveys his spoils; a slice of hot buttered toast with a poached egg placed delicately upon it, sprinkled generously with salt and black pepper. “And you did all this, did you?”

“It was not so very difficult,” Francis sniffs, unsure if the indignation in his voice is put on or not, but he is careful not to mention the two slices of toast he burnt before managing to perfect this one, nor does he mention how Elsie was the one who poached the egg, while he watched attentively. He assumes he could probably manage it on his own, next time.

James smiles at him, still bemused, still half asleep, but with a definite smile on his face. Francis can see the conflicting emotions still raging inside him, but he is smiling. It is a start. 

“Go on then,” Francis says, gesturing to the plate in front of James as he moves towards the door. “I'll be across the hall.”

“No,” James starts quickly, “Stay, please.”

Francis freezes, but eventually nods, settling in the armchair by the fire and pulling a slightly battered copy of The Times out of his back pocket.

“Read me something, would you?”

Francis glances over at James and nods, but remains still until he can see for himself that James has cut into the egg, the golden yolk spilling out over the toast. With this, he turns the page and lets an article catch his eye, clearing his throat. “ _Her Majesty and his Royal Highness Prince Albert,”_ he begins, “ _accompanied by the Princess Royal, drove yesterday to Ballater. The Marchioness of Douro–”_

“Not the bloody Court Circular!” James exclaims around a mouthful of toast. “Something interesting, I beg of you.”

Francis smiles to himself, hidden behind the newspaper, and finds something more to James' tastes. “ _This evening (Monday), Mr Charles Green will make another ascent in his mammoth Nassau balloon, accompanied by a large number of distinguished persons. This is the same balloon which made the memorable trip to Germany, descending at Nassau, in the domains of the Duke of Brunswick, in the year 1836.”_

Francis hears an interested ' _huh'_ among the clinking sounds of cutlery. He closes the paper, folds it up in his lap. “Never fancied balloons, then?” James gives him a puzzled look, so Francis adds, “it could have been your next triumph. A master of land and sea, and now a master of the air.”

James doesn't respond to this straight away; he is silent long enough for Francis to start worrying that he has said the wrong thing, but suddenly James smirks. “The best balloonist in the service,” he announces, and it sets Francis laughing so abruptly that he almost spills tea all over his trousers.

“I don't think I can manage it all,” James admits after Francis has read out a few more articles, though from where Francis is sitting, he seems to have made a good go of it. “Have you eaten? Come and have the rest of this toast.”

With an open palm he pats the empty side of the bed, and Francis feels he cannot refuse.

It is most peculiar, to be climbing onto James' bed, to sit beside him so closely that their shoulders bump together as Francis settles himself. He takes the proffered slice of toast and takes a bite, starting to feel foolish as they sit in silence in James' bedroom, as if this is all very usual. It feels to Francis the most unusual thing he has ever done. Eventually James clears his throat. “How was Sir James Ross, when you last saw him?”

And with that, it is easy to fall into conversation; Francis tells him of Sir James, and Lady Ann, and the newest little addition to their growing family, and once Francis has finished the leftover toast the conversation moves on – not to the Expedition, but to happier times at sea, happier times in foreign lands. James has settled down against his pillows again, still under the blankets. He is pale, Francis can see it in the watery morning light, but there's a brightness to his eyes now, and he is happy to mostly listen as Francis talks. At some point, his hand slips into Francis', and neither of them mention it, as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

“Did you like that?” Francis asks when he has run out of interesting anecdotes, and he feels a faint headache coming on from having talked so much. “The food?”

“Yes,” James says softly. Francis feels James' fingers tighten around his own. “Thank you for making it.”

“Thank you for eating it,” Francis says, which makes James laugh quietly. His laughter devolves into a cough, but Francis pretends not to notice it. “I hope you don’t think I’m meddling where I ought not to, but I want to see you healthy again, above anything else. Healthy and happy and well fed.”

Francis hears a quiet huff of laughter and turns his head. James' hand comes to rest lightly against his cheek.

“You are a dear, sweet man,” James says softly, his eyes following the movement of his hand as it slides from the side of his face up into his hair. “I never thought I'd be so well taken care of.”

Their eyes meet, and for a long while, that is all. Francis feels that he ought to have something to say, but he doesn't. The longer they look at each other, the more he feels completely frozen, devoid of sensible thoughts, only aware of James' fingertips against his skin, and the wild beating of his heart.

James' fingers curl around his ear, gently pulling him closer so that he may press a kiss to Francis' cheek, and Francis knows that it is enough for now.

“You should get up,” Francis croaks once James has relinquished him. He gets up from the bed, pulling at the bottom of his waistcoat to straighten it. He has the urge to smooth down his hair, though to do so would be to remove all trace of James' touch. He leaves it as it is. “There is a growing pile of letters waiting for you downstairs, you know.”

“You're right,” James says, watching him with fondness clear in his dark eyes. “Maybe I should.”

**BEEF, Broiled, and Mushroom Sauce.**

> _Ingredients. –_ 2 or 3 dozen small button mushrooms, 1 oz. of butter, salt and cayenne to taste... _Average cost,_ exclusive of the meat, 8 _d. Seasonable_ from August to October...

With great encouragement, James manages a few days of modest meals – though they are small portions, and nothing to offend a delicate stomach; even Francis must admit he cannot manage anything too rich, too heavy - the fish in béchamel sauce of a few night ago had been a mistake, with neither of them able to take more than a few spoonfuls before pushing the plate away in defeat. But despite this, James seems in better spirits. He is more talkative, less prone to shutting himself away in his room. Now, he is more willing to sit up with Francis into the late evening, to talk and read to each other – magazines and novels and letters from friends. Sometimes they sit very close and talk for a very long time, and when they part for the night, a kiss is pressed to Francis’ cheek, or his forehead, or once it had been the tip of his nose.

It is a source of great surprise to Francis when James announces that he intends to call on his dear friend Charlewood and his wife for tea.

“I don't think I'll be out late,” James says as he pulls on his coat. His cane stands propped up against the front door, and he regards it warily, as if it is not to be trusted. He has not had much practice with it lately. Francis supposes the trust will come with practice, and time – and how much time they have on their hands, now. “You don't mind, do you?”

Francis fights down an incredulous laugh. “Mind? Not at all.” He is delighted, in truth, but manages not to blurt this out. “Are you walking far?”

“Not to fear,” James says as he wraps a scarf around his neck and dons his hat. “I shall take a cab.”

The house feels remarkably emptier when he is gone, and certainly quieter. Elsie has gone out for the afternoon, and Francis finds that he is quite alone, and not entirely sure what to do with himself.

He thinks of taking a walk, of perhaps going down the Euston Road to see how the construction of the new train station at King's Cross is coming along.

The heavens open before he can make up his mind, however; the sky grows dark and heavy, rain lashing mercilessly against the windowpanes, the wind whistling down the chimney.

It has not abated by the time James returns, and even the short walk from the cab to the house leaves him drenched. Water drips from his hair and the brim of his hat and the hem of his greatcoat, but he doesn't seem to mind at all. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and his nose is red, but his eyes are shining.

“You're just in time,” Francis says as James pulls off his coat and throws it over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, shaking the water out of his hair as he does so. “Dinner is all but ready.”

Francis had perhaps expected James to return home in something of a sorry state – exhausted, worn out, with no desire at all for a conversation, never mind a meal. Francis expected James to come home, shut himself up in his room and go straight to sleep, having used up all his energy on a trip to Belgravia and an afternoon of conversation.

But there is an eager, hungry look in his eye now, and Francis relishes it. There is a glimmer of the old James Fitzjames here, a glimmer of that resilient, devil-may-care attitude that had gotten him out of (and doubtless into) so many amusing scrapes.

“And who am I to thank for such a meal," James says, "you or Elsie?”

“Elsie did most of the work,” Francis admits, knowing himself capable of cutting up a few mushrooms but quite overwhelmed in the face of anything as serious as a joint of meat. “But I helped, here and there.”

James laughs. “We’ll have you cooking the dinners at Rules next. Come, then, show me this feast.” He hooks his arm around Francis’ own and takes him into the dining room.

**APRICOT TART.**

> _Ingredients. –_ 12 or 14 apricots, sugar to taste, puff-paste or short crust...Green apricots make very good tarts, but they should be boiled with a little sugar and water before they are covered with the crust...

It is a fine, warm day, and Francis is walking. It is one of the very last days in September, and he knows he must enjoy it while he can, before London falls into autumn, bringing with it so much cold and rain and mud. He has no set destination in mind, but instead wanders mindlessly, trying to adjust to this life of leisure. 

Today he has no appointments to keep, no demands upon his time at all, and so he walks. He is thinking about James – what else does he ever think about, nowadays – until he comes across a greengrocer’s shop, which, among other things, has on display a tray of apricots, plump and velvety and marvellously orange, and Francis tries to remember the last time he had one – some summer’s day in the Med, he thinks, a day full of golden light. It seems another world, another life, for all that has happened since.

On a whim, he goes into the shop and buys a dozen, takes them back to the house and surreptitiously sneaks them to the kitchen so that James will not see, and asks Elsie if she can make a tart with them. To Elsie, it is a slightly surprising request – neither of her sea captains have shown much of an interest in dessert before, and now one of them is in her kitchen, brandishing a bag of apricots.

When it is placed on the table after dinner, Francis feels jubilant. It is a splendid thing – a triumph, a gilded, sugary, shining treasure, almost glinting in the warm candlelight.

James eyes it with growing delight. He is, Francis can say with certainty, excited.

They do not devour the whole thing – such a feat is beyond their abilities – but there are slices left over to have tomorrow, and the day after, as well as one or two for Elsie.

“It reminds me of a pudding we had in Malta,” James says once they have retired to the sitting room. He sits on the sofa with a book in his lap, but his fingers fidget across the front cover as he talks, as if there are so many memories jostling for attention in his head that he cannot keep still. “Apricot and almonds and all sort of spices. Lovely.”

Francis smiles as he stands in the middle of the room, trying to think where the devil he left the magazine he had been reading earlier.

“Come and sit down, Francis,” James says, patting the empty space next to him. “Tell me about the interesting things you saw today.”

“Not so interesting, I assure you,” Francis says, but still he settles himself next to James, who looks as robust and resilient as he has in months. There is an assurance to the way he holds himself now, a glimmer of the hold James Fitzjames, the best walker in the Service, the hero. “You look very well,” he says before he can think about it, and immediately blushes red. “Healthy, I mean, not that you don’t– that is–”

James laughs. “You need not be afraid of paying me a compliment, you know, I would not mind it.” He reaches out to press Francis’ arm. They sit close, he does not need to reach very far. “But thank you. I _feel_ well.”

They smile at one another, and Francis feels his blush recede a little; his racing heart is calmed.

James eventually resumes his novel, and occasionally reads out amusing passages to Francis, who is very content to sit and listen. He rests an arm along the back of the sofa, his fingers daring to touch the ends of James’ hair every now and again.

James does not comment on it but is clearly aware of what Francis is doing, because as he reads, he lifts his chin, tilts his head back slightly so that Francis is able to twirl a strand of hair around his indelicate, roughened fingers.

“If I didn’t know any better,” James says quietly, and Francis becomes aware that he has closed his book. “I’d think you were admiring me, Francis.”

“I think you’d be right,” Francis says, with a confidence that surprises him.

And it is true, because James has always been a sight for sore eyes, but especially now, especially sitting next to Francis in their own sitting room, well fed and comfortably dressed and warmed through. Francis is close enough to see how the fire has caused his face to flush, close enough to see how his hair glints chestnut in the warm light, how he is no longer looking down at his book, but has turned the full force of his dark eyes onto Francis, who suddenly feels breathless with the force of the affection he feels inside him.

Feeling he must impress this affection upon James, he sways forwards like a drunkard and kisses James with an ease that he did not expect.

It is a short kiss, soft and chaste, but it is followed almost immediately by another, and another, and eventually James shifts closer to him so that their thighs press together, and James’ hands find either side of Francis’ face, holding him there so that he can be kissed properly.

One of them makes a contented sort of noise – Francis can’t tell who – and the sound of their mouths gently meeting and parting sends a shiver down his spine, makes his breath hitch in his throat, and suddenly it’s so hot, the room so cramped, and James – James pulls back, staring at him with wide eyes, his lips parted and wet.

“Francis,” he murmurs, whispers his name reverently in a way Francis has never heard before.

For that, Francis has to kiss him again, has to raise a hand to sink it into James’ hair, and James makes a happy sort of noise, and winds an arm around Francis’ waist.

He could do this forever, _plans_ to do this forever, but James’ book slides off his lap and onto the floor, and they both stop to look at it. It is clear to Francis that, where James’ face was flushed just moments ago, now he suddenly seems so pale, and worry runs through Francis like a shower of cold water.

“Perhaps we should stop,” he says, and James frowns at him, pulls his arms from around him.

“Nonsense,” he says. “What makes you say that?”

But as if to answer his own question, he absently lifts a hand to tug at his cravat, as if he cannot quite breathe with it tied securely around his neck.

“You’re not well enough,” Francis says, and regrets it when James flashes him an irritated look.

“I get to decide that,” he snaps, but after a moment he sighs, slumping back against the cushions. “Yes, fine. Maybe you’re right.” A beat of silence. Francis looks away, feeling guilty for bringing them to this point at all.

“I’m going to bed,” James finally says, getting to his feet.

Francis echoes the sentiment, escorting James up the stairs, into his room. If James is annoyed by this careful handling, he doesn’t mention it, but Francis feels it, nonetheless.

He politely averts his eyes as James changes into his nightshirt, and folds back the sheets for him.

“I should have heated some water to put in the foot-warmer,” Francis says, looking at the funny stoneware object poking out from under the bed on which he has just stubbed his toe.

James waves the idea away, staring absently into the mirror as he brushes his hair.

“Right then,” Francis says, after a moment of feeling awkward and out of place. “Goodnight.”

“Hold on,” James says before he turns to leave. “Won’t you – won’t you stay?”

Their eyes meet in the mirror.

“James,” Francis begins, “you’re not well–”

“I _am_ aware,” James says with a frown. “But I only meant – just to sleep. Just that.”

Francis hasn’t the heart to argue, even if he might want to – which he doesn’t.

The bed is quite warmed from the heat of James’ body alone, even in the short time it takes Francis to cross the landing to get changed in his own room. He imagines he ought to feel self-conscious as he climbs into bed next to James, but he doesn’t.

There is something sweet and sad in James’ expression which makes Francis wonder why they haven’t done this sooner.

“There now,” he says once they are both settled, and the lights have been extinguished.

“There now,” James replies, and Francis feels James’ hand take his own. “I think we should have apricots more often. They will remind me of how your kisses taste.”

“ _Hush,”_ Francis says, but he holds James’ hand all the tighter.

**GINGERBREAD.**

> _Ingredients._ – 1lb. of treacle, ¼ lb. of butter, ¼ lb. of coarse brown sugar, 1½ lb. of flour, 1 oz. of ginger, ½ oz. of ground allspice, 1 teaspoonful of carbonate of soda, ¼ pint of warm milk, 3 eggs...

_“You know what I miss?” James asks, a few hours after the British mainland has been sighted at last. His voice is soft, his words slurred, as if speaking is a great challenge._

_Francis says nothing, waits for him to continue. He had not been on deck when a hazy, grey-green strip of land had come into view on the horizon. He had been here, with James. He will likely remain here until they dock._

_“Our cook used to make gingerbread for us, on cold winter days. My brother and I would go out to play in the snow, and when we came back inside there would be a slice of it waiting there for each of us.” James smiles, and Francis smiles too. He can picture it as clearly as if it were his own memory. “It was rich and treacly, and still warm. Dreadfully sticky, of course. I don’t know why they thought it would be a good treat for two young boys. We made an awful mess.”_

_James laughs, and it devolves into a rattling cough. Francis helps him sit up, puts a pillow – his own – under James’ head._

_“And now I want some more,” James says once he has recovered, once his cheeks are flushed and his eyes damp from the exertion of it. “Funny how things come back to you like that.”_

_“We have come in from the cold,” Francis says, brushing the hair back from James’ face. “I suppose you are owed it.”_

“I have a surprise for you,” Francis says as he helps James off with his coat.

They have been walking for a scant half-hour; snow lies thick on the ground and the air is bitter cold. They both feel it too keenly, and only made it halfway around the park before agreeing that enough was enough.

It is a miracle that they got out of the house at all, Francis thinks. When he had woken this morning, his bedroom had been so incredibly warm, partly from the fire in the grate and partly from James lying next to him.

It is still something to get used to, though Francis does not see how he can. Every morning that he wakes with James in his arms, or pressed securely up against his back, feels like a miracle.

They had left the curtains open the night before, so Francis had been woken up by pale winter sunlight peeking over the rooftops, and James bathed in the golden glow of it. It pooled heavily in his collarbones and in the hollow of his throat, shining chestnut in his hair.

Hunger’s marks have not yet left him. Francis can see it in the shadows of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. How sharp he looks, how delicate, like a shard of porcelain.

He is beautiful, though. Francis has always known this, from the moment they met. It was something to hate, once, something to resent, but now it is something to treasure. Francis cannot fathom how much beauty James has brought into his life.

James sleeps far too heavily to be woken up by the light, but when Francis shifted closer to lay his head on James’ pillow and throw an arm across his chest, James stirred slightly.

After a moment, a hand came to rest on Francis’ arm, fingertips stroking gently at the soft hair there.

“What time is it?” He murmured hoarsely, and Francis craned his neck to squint at the clock on the mantlepiece.

“Nearly nine.” Francis said, laying his head back down on the pillow. All he could smell is James’ hair. “What a layabout you have made me.”

James huffed a laugh. “You’ve no one to blame but yourself.” He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Francis’ forehead.

Now, standing in the front hall, shaking the snow out of his hair, James smiles. “A surprise? What do you mean?”

“Go and get changed,” Francis says, nodding to the snow-soaked cuffs of James’ trousers. “I’ll bring it up to you.”

“How mysterious,” James says, his eyebrows raised. Amusement dances on his features, and he disappears up the stairs without another word.

By the time Francis joins him in his room, he is in warm, dry clothes, and sitting by the fire to warm his feet. When he sees what Francis is holding, his mouth falls open in surprise – as if he cannot quite find the words.

“Gingerbread,” Francis says simply, holding out a plate for him. “Perfect for a cold day like this.”

“I–” James starts, getting to his feet. “Did I tell you about that?”

“On _Enterprise._ Not far off Stromness.”

James’ expression suggests a vague recollection. “I am glad one of us remembers it, at least.” He crosses the room to take the proffered plate and, with a glance to the door to check that there is no one lingering in the hall, cups Francis’ face with his free hand and presses a kiss to his mouth. “I do love you, you know,” he says softly, and before Francis can respond, or gather the wherewithal to think about responding, James takes the other plate from Francis, moving towards the door.

“Get changed,” he says, “and we’ll have this downstairs.”

He leaves the room and Francis finds himself smiling at nothing.

“Have we any cream?” James calls from halfway down the stairs. “It is really quite excellent with cream.”

**CHERRY JAM.**

> _Ingredients. –_ To every lb. of fruit, weighed before stoning, allow ½ lb. of sugar ; to every 6 lbs. of fruit allow 1 pint of red-currant juice, and to every pint of juice 1 lb. of sugar...

“Let’s go out,” James says shortly after the clock strikes three, and the sky is purpling as the sun sets. “I want to see how the shops on Regent Street are done up.”

“If you like,” Francis says, with slight reluctance in his voice; he had been looking forward to a slice of cake and some tea before long, but he knows now that he will never be able to say no to James, nor will he want to.

To Francis, Christmas seems a good way off still, and yet London seems to be frothing with excitement already. Shop windows are bright and merry, and hung with garlands and boughs of holly, and the streets are inordinately busy; people carrying parcels, carrying Christmas trees, for goodness’ sake – _down the middle of Regent Street, James, is that really necessary? –_ and the odd cluster of carol singers, pressed close for warmth as they sing.

They pass a cart where a man is roasting chestnuts, and when Francis stops to warm his hands, James takes the opportunity to buy a bag.

“To stop your complaining,” he says as they continue down Regent Street towards Oxford Circus.

“I am not complaining,” Francis protests, but he is happy to accept when James hands him a chestnut, which is warm and soft and surprisingly sweet.

“Don’t you think it’s marvellous?” James asks, gesturing vaguely at the scene around them, the ladies with their fur trimmed bonnets and the children bundled up in their scarves and mittens. The smell of pine needles and spices in the air, the sound of singing.

“Aye,” he says, though if he is honest with himself, he’s looking at James more than at the bustle around them, only taking in the way he seems to glow in the golden warmth of shop windows, how his nose is red with cold but his dark eyes are glittering with quiet merriment. “It’s grand.”

Before long they are walking up Portland Place, and the commotion of the West End is behind them, and the dark, open space of Regent’s Park is ahead.

“Come, Mister Scrooge,” James says, nudging Francis with his shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”

“That’s _Captain_ Scrooge to you,” Francis mutters, which makes James snort with laughter and earn a stern look from a grand old lady walking past them. “And I haven’t complained about anything for at least half an hour.”

“Thank heavens for that,” James says, smiling wryly. “I’m famished, aren’t you?”

Francis realises that he is, and he feels doubly so once they are home again with the door locked behind them, and he remembers he gave Elsie the afternoon off, and as such the house is dark, the rooms are cold.

He goes down into the kitchen, hearing James stomp up the stairs to his bedroom, and he thinks back to that sunny morning in July when he had received a veritable horde of greenery from James Clark Ross' Oxfordshire estate – enough to fill the hold of a ship, surely – apples and greengages and pears and a basket of cherries. These cherries, as dark and red as blood, had been boiled with sugar and turned to jam, put into jars and stored in the cool darkness of the pantry, waiting for a cold afternoon such as this.

Francis cuts two thick slices of bread and spreads on a generous layer of butter, though it is hard as stone in the chill of the kitchen and rather unmanageable. The jam, however, is easy and forgiving, and he is liberal with it, managing to splatter a few flecks of it on the cuff of his good shirt.

He fills the kettle up with water – James has surely lit the fire in the bedroom, and they can make tea up there at their leisure, and at last he leaves the dark kitchen and ascends the stairs balancing plates and teacups, a pot of sugar and a bottle of milk.

James is tying his housecoat closed when Francis comes in, and his face lights up when he sees what Francis has brought.

“You’re an angel,” he says, taking the kettle and the teacups and setting them on the tiles in front of the fire.

They sit on the bed to eat, and something about it reminds Francis of his boyhood, of snaffling away some biscuits and hiding in a cupboard with a brother or two to eat them, to grin and laugh and get crumbs everywhere.

“This is divine,” James says around a mouthful of bread, and Francis can only smile and nod his agreement.

“Simple pleasures,” he eventually manages once his plate is empty, and James laughs.

“You have jam on your hand,” he says, and Francis looks down to see a fleck on his thumb.

James has grabbed his hand before he can do anything about it, and Francis watches in slight amazement as James brings his hand to his mouth so that he can lick away that smear of jam, and presses small kisses to his palm, to his fingers.

“I think it’s clean now, you know,” Francis says, his voice distinctly strained, which makes James grin and release him, though Francis hardly has time to draw breath before James all but throws himself at him, pushing him back against the mattress and falling upon him, kissing him with a force Francis has not felt before.

All he can do is give himself over to it, burying one hand in James’ hair and winding an arm around his waist and pulling him as close as it is possible to be.

“You taste delicious,” James murmurs, pulling back to kiss wetly at Francis’ neck. “Like cherries.”

“So do you,” Francis replies, running his hands down James’ sides. He cannot feel it for all the layers of James' clothes, but he imagines running his fingers over the raised skin of the bullet wound in his side, twice opened and twice healed. There is a warm, heavy joy, something honeyed and golden, in knowing that there will not be a third time. “Sweet and sticky, something growing and alive.”

“Alive,” James repeats, pulling Francis’ shirt out from the waistband of his trousers so that his hands can roam across his chest. Francis thought his hands might be cold, but they are warm, delightfully warm. “Alive, alive, together and alive. And that’s how we’ll stay.”

Francis grabs him by the hair and kisses him again, rolls them over and presses James down into the sheets and kisses him, the two of them no longer starving on some desolate spit of land but alive, warm and fed and healthy and _alive_ , the fire burning merrily in the grate, snow falling outside, the tea by the fireplace quite forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> title from Queen Bee by Johnny Flynn which is extremely fitzier. Section headings/recipes taken from Mrs Beeton's Dictionary of Every-Day Cooking (1865). It's on Google Books if you fancy checking it out - there are some interesting things in there, like "Nutritious Coffee" which is coffee + egg. Yum. 
> 
> for wildcard_47, i hope you enjoy what i did with your prompt - i really wanted to dial up the victorian domesticity, and i hope it showed! <3
> 
> a million thanks to reinetta for listening to me whine about this for approximately 1000 years, thank you for your help <3
> 
> thank you for reading!


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